The Lie Hidden in Roses Chapter 08

The Lie Hidden in Roses Chapter 08 The Trap Waiting for Me

I gave him the shortened version of everything that had happened over the past few days.

The red roses.

The message written across one petal.

The missing mole at the back of Rowan’s neck.

The boarding pass.

The photographs.

“Maren, listen to me.” Uncle Mercer’s voice went sharp with alarm. “You are in real danger. If these people have managed to stay invisible for fifteen years, they are not amateurs, and they do not leave loose ends. Get out of that apartment right now. I’ll call someone I trust and have them pick you up.”

“No,” I said. “I have to find Rowan.”

“Are you out of your mind? They’re using him to draw you into the open.”

“Uncle Mercer, Rowan only got pulled into this because of me. He came into my life because he wanted answers about his father, but somewhere along the way, he started protecting me too. I can’t just abandon

him now.”

For a few seconds, the only thing I heard was his breathing on the other end of the line. When he finally spoke again, he sounded tired in a way I had never heard before.

“You have your father’s stubborn streak. Once you decide to run toward the fire, nobody can drag you back.”

“I need a favor.”

“Tell me.”

“I need you to look into Damon Cross. He was one of the two men who survived that task force. I want to know where he’s been for the last fifteen years and whether he has any connection to the Black Meridian

Cartel.”

“Damon Cross?” Uncle Mercer hesitated. “Why him?”

“His name was on the list. Only two men survived. One was Damon Cross. The other was Malcolm Voss, and

was on

Malcolm died of an illness five years ago. That leaves Damon.”

“Maren, Damon Cross is not a name you chase lightly. His reputation inside the department was always dirty. Some people believed he survived because he made a deal with the other side, but nobody ever proved it. After the case went cold, he was transferred out, and I lost track of him.”

“Then he’s exactly the person worth checking.”

Uncle Mercer went quiet for several long seconds.

Fine’ he said at last. ll make some calls. But you need to promise me something. Until I get back to you,

you do not do anything reckless, and you do not meet that man alone.”

“I promise.”

After the call ended. I stood there and forced air into my lungs until my hands stopped shaking.

Then I went to the address in Eastbrook District.

The neighborhood looked like the city had forgotten it existed. Rows of aging brick apartment buildings. stood shoulder to shoulder, the kind that had probably gone up in the eighties and had been left to decay/ ever since. Water stains crawled down the exterior walls. Paint peeled in gray strips. Rust had eaten deep into the window frames. On the ground floor, broken furniture and abandoned junk were stacked against the walls as if everyone had stopped caring long ago.

I looked up.

The fourth-floor window was shut.

The curtains were drawn so tightly that not even a thread of light showed from inside.

The stairwell was narrow, dim, and crowded with things people had given up on moving. Bicycles leaned against the walls. Cardboard boxes slumped in the corners. Old glass jars, broken stools, and useless household junk clogged the landings.

Every step creaked beneath me.

I climbed to the fourth floor and stopped outside Apartment 401.

The same number from the key tag.

The door was an old metal security door, painted a faded green that had peeled away in wide patches, exposing rust underneath. I lifted my hand and knocked.

No one answered.

I waited, then knocked three more times.

Still nothing.

I drew in a breath, pushed the key into the lock, and turned it.

The lock gave without resistance.

When I opened the door, the hinges shrieked in a long metallic scrape.

The apartment beyond it was dark. The curtains had been pulled shut, leaving only the thin strip of hallway light to spill across the floor.

A damp, moldy smell reached me first.

Then came something sweeter, heavier, and wrong enough to make my stomach clench. It smelled like perfume gone sour inside an old bottle, or flowers left too long in dirty water until the stems began to rot.

I stayed in the doorway until my eyes adjusted.

The living room was almost bare.

A table.

A chair.

And on the tabletop, a plain white envelope.

No name.

No symbol.

No writing at all.

I crossed the room and picked it up.

The flap had never been sealed. Inside was a folded note.

I opened it.

Maren, you finally came.

The handwriting was neat and deliberate, every life controlled with an almost unnatural precision, as if the writer had spent years training each stroke into place.

It was not the same handwriting from the rose petal.

That message had looked rushed. Desperate.

This one was steady, cold, and far too calm.

A chill crawled over my scalp.

I turned toward the door.

It was already closed.

It hadn’t been the wind.

It hadn’t swung shut on its own.

When I entered, the door had opened inward, and I had never pulled it closed behind me.

Someone was outside.